Chapter Five: First Fires and Gentle Eyes
819 Words
“Okay, breathe. Just breathe.”
Adanna stood outside the Stone & Sky conference room, her sketch roll tucked under one arm and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Her armpits were sticky. Her stomach—an Olympic gymnast.
This was it: her first concept pitch.
And not just to the team—but to a high-profile client.
She adjusted her Ankara print scarf, wiped her clammy hands on her trousers, and whispered, “Holy Spirit, please don’t let me flop.”
Inside, the room was already buzzing. Zara was arranging mockups on the wall screen. Two senior associates sat scrolling on tablets. Toba leaned against the window, sipping black coffee like someone who’d slept for exactly four hours and liked it that way.
When he saw her, he gave a small nod. You’ve got this.
The client, Mrs. Onwudiwe, was already seated. A regal woman in her late 60s, wrapped in a flowing grey lace blouse and matching headwrap. Her pearl earrings looked heavy. Her stare? Even heavier.
Adanna stepped forward.
“Good morning, ma. Good morning everyone,” she began, voice steadier than she felt.
“I’m Adanna Ekwe, and I’m honoured to walk you through this concept.”
She opened her sketchpad and began—slides and hand-drawn renders side-by-side, her voice weaving ideas into images.
“A sanctuary,” she said, “doesn’t have to be silent or cold. I imagined this space as a hug. Clean lines, yes—but softened with natural textures. Skylights for morning prayers. A reading nook near the east-facing window. A courtyard that breathes.”
When she finished, the room was silent. Too silent.
Then came the questions.
A partner named Mr. Bala asked about budget estimates.
Another wanted more definition on the structural angles.
Zara nodded in encouragement.
Toba watched closely—too closely, she thought.
Mrs. Onwudiwe finally spoke.
“Your design is gentle,” she said, tapping her long nails on the table. “But does it have backbone?”
Adanna blinked. “Ma?”
“You’ve captured serenity. But what about resilience? I’m not just a tired woman who wants peace. I’m a strong woman who’s survived life. I want my home to whisper rest but stand like a pillar.”
Adanna’s throat tightened. “I understand. I’ll rework the framing to carry more visual weight—stronger transitions between rooms. Maybe feature a central stone wall to ground the space?”
Mrs. Onwudiwe smiled faintly. “Better.”
The meeting ended shortly after. Toba clapped a hand on her shoulder as the room cleared.
“You survived,” he said, smiling.
“Barely.”
“She liked you. She just wanted to test your nerves.”
Adanna exhaled. “I thought I’d pass out. Or cry.”
“You didn’t. That counts.”
---
Later that afternoon, Adanna went down to the office café to grab a meat pie and malt. The cool air smelled of cinnamon and printer toner.
She was halfway through her snack when she overheard two junior architects at a nearby table.
“Did you see her pitch?” one whispered. “All soft touches and church-worship vibes. Sweet, but this isn’t a women’s retreat centre.”
“She’s just lucky she’s Toba’s new favourite,” the other laughed. “Wait till the next project humbles her.”
Adanna froze.
She stood up slowly, walked past them, and didn’t say a word.
But inside, something cracked.
---
That evening, back at home, she didn’t touch her food. Mama noticed.
“Adanna?”
“I’m fine, ma.”
Mama sighed and sat beside her, arms folded.
“Your eyes are doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That faraway thing. The one that says you’re carrying something heavy and pretending it’s light.”
Adanna looked down.
“They don’t think I belong there.”
“Who?”
“The others. I heard them. They think I’m just lucky. Like I don’t deserve to be where I am.”
Mama nodded slowly. “Let me ask you something. When you were little, and you wanted to touch the top shelf, what did I say?”
“Stand on a stool,” Adanna murmured.
“Exactly. You didn’t grow taller overnight. You stood on something. Doesn’t mean you didn’t reach it.”
Mama touched her hand gently. “You’re standing on grace. Doesn’t make you less deserving. Just means God helped you up.”
Adanna closed her eyes.
The tears came then—not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet release.
---
Monday would come with its pressure.
Toba’s attention would continue to confuse her.
The whispers might not stop.
But right now, on this worn couch in Gwagwalada, with the scent of Mama’s soup and the hum of the neighbour’s generator in the distance, Adanna let herself breathe again.
Because grace didn’t need permission to work.
It just needed faith.
- Writer
